The Tale Of Samuel Whiskers

“You’re so beautiful, my fluffy monster,” I tell him as he lies in my arms, purring. It’s an impressive purr: the rumble of a little steam engine. Stroking his head, I look down at him and notice something very strange and unsettling.
“Mum,” I say. “Someone has cut off all his whiskers on one side.”
“Yes, I saw that,” Mum says, not sounding that bothered. “Maybe it was a mouse?”
“It can’t have been,” I say. “They’ve been cut, with scissors, look.”
The whiskers on his left side are all short: they haven’t been singed or torn.
“Who has done this to our kitten?” I say, stroking his head.
“I don’t know, darling,” Mum says.
It is a mystery. Maybe rats have pinned him down and chopped off his whiskers and next time they will put him in a roly-poly pudding. He doesn’t seem troubled though: he’s his usual cheerful self.

No message from the Twitcher today. Must stop checking my phone every two minutes. Hope he hasn’t gone off me already…

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